Gears Alphabet
by the-celestial-insanity
Summary: A series of Gears oneshots following the ABCs, originally written in 2009 as a writing exercise. COMPLETED and UNEDITED from 2009. Updated every Tuesday until I run out.
1. Acceptance

**Author's note 4/3/18:** This story was originally published under the username 'auronkae' on July 25th, 2009. I was 12 years old when I wrote these. I'm reposting them under this account to keep some continuity between accounts and also to showcase writing I'm particularly proud of. I will update the chapters every Tuesday until I run out. Thank you for checking it out!

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A/N: This began as a writing exercise, and I don't know if I'll finish it or not. This is just a way for me to keep my mind sharp while I'm writing.

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 **A**

 **.acceptance**

Night was just another stage of the day. It stretched on and on, bringing with it its own unique dangers. It wasn't _comforting,_ because with every night there would always be a tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that…

For once, night on Sera wasn't dominated by the shrill shrieks of the kryll, and Marcus Fenix was unnerved. His body had taken such a beating in the last few days that his mind had detached from the pain… or maybe it was the morphine in his bloodstream, taking the edge off for him so he could sleep easier. He'd refused to be knocked out by the drug, as did the other surviving members of Delta Squad, and he could sense that they too were awake in the unnatural stillness that pervaded the hospital's semi-white hallways.

They were each listening for something that wasn't there.

Marcus didn't dare to hope that the Lightmass Bomb had actually worked—if it had, he'd celebrate when the last Locust was dead under his feet. Until then, he _had_ to be alert, and he _had_ to be steady.

He wondered how long it'd been since he was in that dingy jail cell. One day, two, three? It felt like somebody else's life right then, because this could have easily been just a point in time just before his court-martial. In the hospital with is squad, getting treated for whatever injury they'd managed to sustain _this_ time…

Cole's light snore eased its way into the backdrop of noise, unexplainably comforting. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to sleep without the backdrop of kryll screams, or if he'd ever be able to turn off the light at night. Even now, the hospital's lights were on. They ran on some sort of solar power that had been installed before E-Day and had somehow survived all this time.

Marcus couldn't sleep. Even with the morphine dulling his senses, the adrenaline was still pumping through his system and for once he couldn't turn it off. His body, acclimatizing to the sudden changes that had been made, was telling him that he should be _fighting._ He should be hiding under cover, shooting at grubs, or maybe walking through a Stranded camp, desperate for light.

It was a _fight or flight_ response that made his pulse quicken, his trigger-finger itch. He couldn't calm down, and he knew that it wasn't his instincts telling him there was trouble. It was a mental thing.

 _Just go to sleep, bro,_ Dom said. _We need it._

Marcus opened his eyes to the bright light, looking over at the hospital bed beside him. Dom looked smaller without his armor, dressed in only a hospital gown. He'd gone into the OR the same time Marcus did and for the same reason—the treatment of the wounds they'd sustained in their final, desperate stand on the train.

The _train._

Even thinking about it caused Marcus's heart to speed up.

Everything that had happened since his breakout, every little drop of sweat and blood, had climaxed on the train ride to Hell. The Berserker—easy. The Wretches had been a bit harder, the Reavers doubly so. When the Wretches decided to play with the train's power, any doubts of them being stupid, mindless creatures had left his mind. But it was RAAM that had freaked him out. It was RAAM who'd scared him shitless.

He was tougher than the Berserker, tougher than the Corpser, tougher than _anything_ Marcus Fenix had faced in his life. It was only pure luck that they managed to kill him.

Pure fucking luck.

Baird's own light snore accompanied Cole's.

Dom moved slightly, moving his left shoulder a bit experimentally. His eyes were still closed, but Marcus knew he was awake… and if he knew his friend as well as he thought he still did, he knew Dom would be having the same problems he was.

Fuck, he _hurt._ All fucking over. Every tip, every fall, every roll, every hit seemed to be catching up with him. He groaned a little in the back of his throat, a reflex, and Dom moved a bit more on his cot.

He closed his eyes, turning over to lay on his stomach and to block out the light. The screeching of the kryll was in his mind this time, and he could still feel the movement of the train underneath him…

He was half-asleep when he heard, very softly, "Yo, Marcus."

"Hmm?"

"Your ass is showing."

Marcus froze, turning his head on his pillow to glare at Dom. His eyes were still closed, his head facing the opposite direction, but there was a sly grin on his face. Muttering soundless curses to himself, Marcus pulled the drawstring on his back shut and took the unused blankets set out for him and placed them over himself.

Not because he was afraid of Dom's teasing, but Baird and Cole had already proved more than once that they were very, very skilled at pissing him off in less than two minutes. He didn't want to give them another thing to rant on about.

Still, though, even that short exchange helped, just a little bit. It broke him free from his thoughts, allowing the snores of his companions to bring him into a deep, coma-like sleep. He had to accept the near-death experiences as a part of life. He _had_ to.


	2. Backbone

A/N: Not as long as my other one, but it was fun. I had a good time trying to imagine Hoffman doing desk-duty, and I got a bit carried away. Enjoy. :)

 **B**

 **.backbone**

Victor Hoffman leaned back, relieving his aching lower back from the stress he'd put on it doubled over at his desk, frantically trying to finish a report on the Lightmass Bomb. Having already been debriefed by Prescott in person, it was with ill grace that he filed Delta Squad's report _for_ them—even though they deserved sleep more than he did.

He rubbed his face, which had set into a frozen numbness. Writing one report was codswallop enough, but Fenix had been fucking _busy._ From Alpha's rescue to the Fenix Estate to that fucking _train_ , Hoffman had his hands full.

He didn't regret writing them. He just regretted sending them on such a long goddamn goose chase. And Fenix…

Fenix had given his two-hundred-percent. As always.

Hoffman didn't allow himself to dwell on the man's earlier… _predicament._ If it had been any one of his soldiers, even Santiago (and it was, from the look of things on the train), Hoffman would've recommended them for the Embry Star. It had been with mixed feelings when he took Fenix into the Raven to say, "Good job."

 _Fuck it. I'm never going to see him as anything more than Locust food, am I?_

Hoffman didn't even know what Fenix _felt_ about the entire thing. Probably pissed to the Nine Hells and back, because _he_ would be. But the Gear never showed it, and all that rage and piss and anger he _had_ to have been feeling was locked under a smooth, glacial calm.

 _I wasn't expecting prison to have made him mellower. Hell, not even_ I _know what went on in there._

Privately, he didn't want to.

Santiago was worse. After he'd sentenced his best friend to die in the Slab, the kid could hardly look at him. Hoffman had seen him when he'd lost his brother Carlos in the last war, and losing Fenix seemed to do the same thing to him. He'd gotten loud, making as much noise as he could to any politician he could find to _get Marcus out._

Hoffman could still remember the fated words that had shocked him and everybody around him in Control: "Let them out—Fenix? No, he can rot for all I care."

He could remember when he'd gotten the call to say Santiago was _missing._ Hoffman had sent a Raven loaded with Kim and Carmine to help out their comrade, because Santiago was a fucking good soldier, but he and his buddy had already taken out the Locusts in their way to the chopper.

Would Hoffman have done the same thing if he was in Santiago's shoes? He'd like to think he would.

 _Do it for Santiago,_ he thought.

Colonel Hoffman leaned over the desk again and began writing a separate letter to Chairman Prescott, recommending all of Delta Squad for the Embry Star. _…for their extraordinary handling of the Lightmass Bombing, and for perseverance, backbone, and for every grub they killed on their journey there._

Hoffman stopped. That sounded a bit too polite regarding recent events. He took out another paper and began again at the risk of sounding like the asshole he was.

 _Firmly suggesting that you award Dominic Santiago, Marcus Fenix, Damon Baird, Augustus Cole, and Minh Young Kim the Embry Star; because they're goddamn heroes._


	3. Constipation

A/N: Everybody, thanks for the favs! I'm hoping to get a chapter done a day (because I luv challenging myself) but I don't know if I can continue with the move coming up. I'll run myself into the ground trying, though. ^_^

On to Chapter 3…

 **C**

 **.constipation**

 _The Junker_

The compartment was pretty snug, and not in a good way. Dom found himself switching around every few minutes or so to find a better purchase on the rickety chair attached to the UV light. He'd gotten _very_ familiar with its inner mechanics not long ago on a ride through hell in the dark Stranded streets. With the kryll coming from just about every angle and Marcus driving like a maniac through deserted streets, it had taken nearly all of their cunning combined just to make it through alive.

The short, smelly, pissed-off Stranded from the gas station had been replaced with two new backseat drivers, and none of them were helping Marcus's stress levels as he drove them through the dimly-lit sections of the sprawling city. Within minutes of entering and taking the passenger's seat, Baird had turned on the radio to some sort of funky old-age jazz music. Cole and all his bulk were packed into the rear, lounging next to Dom's legs.

After a while, Marcus snorted out some air from his nose. "Great," he muttered. He never raised his voice much, and when he did all he did was turn up the volume. "I think we got a gas leak."

Baird took a careful sniff, wincing from odors Dom couldn't smell from his vantage point. "It's not methane gas," he said knowingly. "Must be a dead animal in here somewhere."

"That's only _now_ decomposing?" Marcus might've looked like a grub, but he was smart. "Try again."

"Well, try to think of when the last time somebody drove this clunker, jackass," Baird snapped back. "Maybe we jiggled something loose in a bump—how should I know?"

Cole's silent laughter vibrated Dom's seat. "Ooooh, man, I smell it!"

Baird's face was frozen in whatever expression it had been in before. When Dom glanced down between his legs, he could see his chin and beard, all dyed white from the radio's lights. Cole had a hand over his mouth to surpress the laughter. "Yeah?" Baird challenged.

"It smells like a decomposin' animal, Damon baby," Cole answered.

Dom took a chance, taking a deeper whiff of the air around him. He could smell something, faint but growing stronger, and it made his nose wrinkle. "Nah," he said. "Smells like swamp. But we ain't near a swamp, are we? Marcus?"

Cole's chuckles grew even louder.

"It's nothing to worry about," Baird said harshly. "Just forget about it."

 _They ran through the house, Marcus having taken out the troika gunner with a well-aimed headshot. Dom followed behind, Lancer ready, trying to stay in the light as much as possible. He could hear the kryll outside, screeching in their own hypnotic way…_

"Yo, Marcus, you read?"

" _I read you loud and clear, Cole. Where's Baird?"_

"In the toilet, man. Listen, we got shakes up here, and the kryll are movin' our way…"

Dom blinked, shocked. He sensed that, below him, Marcus had made the connection. "Oh _shit_." Marcus's voice was dripping with disgust. Cole laughed out loud, biting into his fist to muffle the sound. "Fuck it, Baird."

"We can't even open a window," Dom said wistfully.

Baird didn't say a word, and when Dom looked down he noted that he was staring out the windshield, his jaw set. The new-age jazz music played in the background, and Dom actually snorted to himself.

"Baird." Marcus's voice was annoyed. "Turn that shit off."

The jazz music faded into the background, but Dom was sure Marcus had meant something else, too.


End file.
